Resolutions
by Ruralstar
Summary: It's New Year's Eve and Owen is contemplation his life and whether he has the right to make Cristina a part of his After. She might have something to say about that. A/N: written sans beta. Disclaimer: Grey's Anatomy is the property of ABC et al.


A/N pt2: Final installment in a series of three stories loosely connected by the original character Timothy Dahner, created as a reference in my story "Failure to Connect"

**Holiday Trilogy: **Another Time and Place, Christmas in the After, Resolutions

Resolutions

Cristina Yang did not believe in New Year's resolutions. Owen had never asked her, it was just something he knew. In the same way he knew that the night of her father's accident had been frequently repeated in her dreams. Ruthlessly relegated to the back of her thoughts and ensconced in a prison of will stronger than Owen's by virtue of time. She was haunted but she refused to bend—until she met him.

Now there was a softness that made her no less fierce. She reciprocated Owen's defensive coldness by unlocking that mental door and letting in just a fraction of light. Once exposed, her past had become part of the present. Owen could see her fighting to control that sense of vulnerability when forced to deal with the emotional side of medicine. Sometimes she lost the battle and the protective armor cultivated since childhood closed over her sensitive soul. Still, she pressed onward. Using the determination Owen so much admired to become a better doctor and a better person. Cristina was learning to live with the memories, instead of burying them in the dark. Baby steps without a conscious declaration of intent or assumption of success.

Owen stood in front of the large window in his living room. Two streets west lay Seattle Harbor and the Pacific, the froth-flecked waters reflecting a myriad of colors back towards the city. The remains of a storm front moved steadily eastward. The undersides of the thinning clouds were painted dusky lavender interspersed with patches of navy blue sky. Owen scrubbed a hand across the back of his neck and sighed. The window was made of thick, duel paned glass. He would have to go downstairs and walk to the shore if he wanted to smell the ocean and hear the waves. Going out meant being with people and, unlike Cristina, he just wasn't ready.

A rueful grimace twisted Owen's lips as his hand dropped to his side. No, Cristina was not any better at people than he was. She just had more practice at faking it—until now. There were some in the hospital who had been allowed to peel the onion of her personality. They did not understand her any better for the glimpse however. He knew that much was true after Cristina confronted the majority of her fellow Residents in the gallery just before Alex Karev's solo surgery. For them the prison had remained locked, for him the latch was sprung. To know a fraction of what lay within was to take responsibility for it. A heavy weight Cristina had unintentionally bestowed on Owen in an attempt to connect with his After.

On the coffee table behind him sat a bottle of willpower and an empty shot glass. A shiver traveled down Owen's spine. He had pulled out the bottle of Glenfiddich Scotch an hour ago. Tonight was New Year's Eve and he intended to drown 2008 well and truly before the stroke of midnight. Owen did not remember when he had stopped believing in resolutions. After the death of his mother from a stroke while he was attending Basic Training? After the sudden dissolution of his engagement in between his first and second tours in Iraq? After the RPG ambush? Any one of those events would have been enough. Standing in the solitude of his sparsely furnished apartment Owen was sure of only one thing—it did not matter when or how, only that he could no longer feign hope. The idea that Cristina might feel the same way left his conscience sharply divided.

Owen turned from the window and walked around the back of the couch. He sank down on the worn leather cushions and picked up the bottle of Scotch. The glass was tinted green, a Stag's head printed in gold on the label. He slowly spun the smooth glass in his hands, watching the air bubble on the curve shimmy up and down as he tilted the bottle. The Scotch was twelve years old. For his purposes it could have been fresh from the cask. Owen knew from experience that smoking dulled the taste buds. He would have bet a month's pay that strong emotions were equally efficient at the task.

Cristina had no business in his private hell. Undoubtedly she could handle it but sharing lessened the burden and Owen wanted it all. Selfishly, pointlessly, for reasons that made no logical sense, he wanted every ounce of pain for himself. Intellectually, Owen knew where the fault for the ambush lay. Truth was a pale sickly beast in comparison to his reality His unit had not come home and he deserved to suffer for it.

Cristina refused to let him.

Owen put the bottle on the table and sat back on the couch.

The other side of the coin was harder to read. Sorrow, deeper and harsher than he had ever experienced, was a part of Cristina's world. He had the luxury of distance when his mother passed. She had been a child present at her father's death. Innocence ripped away in the most graphic way imaginable. Owen had seen death in ways Cristina had not but guilt—however unwarranted—made them strangely kindred of spirit. That connection thrummed with a life of its own whenever they were together. For a moment, an hour, a night, no matter what the reason that caused their paths to cross.

Owen let his head drop back onto the couch. Cristina was working tonight. They had not seen each other since December 26th but had spoken twice on the telephone. She had no plans for New Years.

"_Just another excuse for people to get drunk and stupid," she declared with a touch of irony in her voice. "More chances to practice my surgical skills."_

A stranger might view the addendum as unnecessarily hard-hearted. Owen knew better. Cristina was a realist. She would not celebrate without cause, nor would she let opportunity go untapped. Owen agreed to work the evening as well. It would be a chance to see Cristina without the added pressures of being alone.

He backed out at the last minute without telling her.

Owen looked down at his watch. 23:30. Cristina had been on duty for seven and a half hours. Time enough to let anger steep into a toxic brew hot enough to singe even his frosted soul. Not that he intended to give her the opportunity of confrontation. Owen had called in sick for the first time in his adult life. Lying outright to Chief Webber and then disconnecting the phone. No one would disturb this well deserved collaboration of Scotch and ashes.

Owen dropped his eyes to the bottle. It should have been half gone by now. He could not decide if strength of will had kept him from drinking or if lack of courage prevented him from opening the bottle in the first place. To give in or walk away seemed a moot point when the world view remained the same whether seen through the veil of inebriation or sobriety. The Army psychiatrist had warned him about self-medicating with drugs or alcohol. Giving a doctor medical advice was always a tricky proposition. Owen had experienced the same tolerant stare he bestowed upon the shrink from a half dozen 'patients' over the years. Maybe it was simple common sense that kept the glass empty and the bottle full?

Yeah, right.

Owen pushed to his feet. Midnight would signal the end of a horrible year. He did not pray or wish for something better. Hope was a frail thing better suited to teenage girls and small children. Grown men did not dream, they simply moved from task to task. Owen shook his head and paced back to the window. He had not always felt this way. In the Before there were many dreams and plans for the future. Kissing Cristina the day of the ice storm had been a calculated gamble he hoped would pay off after his tour ended. No one could have foreseen the twist of fate that washed his world in crimson. Now he simply existed and the idea of pulling her into such a two dimensional space left him weak with panic and guilt. Cristina deserved so much better.

But she would not let him walk away.

He bit his lip and jammed clenched fists deep into his pockets. Just by being herself, Cristina Yang had a hold on him. Owen could not explain it. A part of him was unwilling to try because their chemistry was the one constant in his life at present. To probe too deep was to invite disaster.

He could not handle one more disaster.

The streets below his seventh floor window were thick with holiday traffic. He studied the tracery of lights through half-lidded eyes. Everyone seemed to have a destination. The lens of the window glass gave the appearance of purpose without the substance of reality. He could not move from one state to another effectively anymore. Each day was harder than the last. When would he make a mistake? How would someone's reality be forever altered by the sham of his current life? Self-pitying nonsense, his subconscious cried out. But the voice was growing weaker. Nightmares snatching sleep in hungry jaws, images of blood and gore made more graphic with each new trauma that arrived at the doors of Seattle Grace. Owen dragged a clammy hand down his face and turned from the window. He was halfway around the couch, hand outstretched for the Glenfiddich, when the doorbell chimed.

Owen gasped and spun around. Had he heard correctly? Only the Chief knew he was home… The chime sounded a second time and was followed by three sharp knocks. Owen drew a steadying breath. She would not come here… The knocks were louder this time, a fist instead of knuckles on the painted wood. Owen squared his shoulders. Not tonight. She could not be here for this… The knock did not come again but he knew she was waiting as he walked purposefully across the living room and reached for the deadbolt.

"We had an agreement," Cristina snapped as the door swung wide.

Her outrage slammed into him and Owen took an involuntary step back. "I called in at 14:00."

She rolled her eyes. "I know what you did. I was already on duty. Because, unlike you, Meredith really does have the flu."

"Cristina, go home."

"No, I don't think so." She was past him and into the center of the living room before Owen could draw a breath. Another step and she turned, eyebrows raised and lips curled in evident disgust. One small hand pointed to the bottle of Scotch. "Private party?"

"This isn't about you." Owen could feel the familiar darkness rising within. The same bottled rage that had exploded outside of Joe's Bar weeks earlier. Kin to the grief he barely contained when visiting Timothy Dahner's grave the day after Christmas. She had to leave. "Go home. Please."

Her face softened slightly at his plea but Cristina did not move. "You made this about me, about us, if there is such an animal." She flung her arms wide. "You took me to the vent, you listened when none of my so called friends could pull theirs heads out of their respective egos long enough to care." Cristina shook her head, her hands falling to her sides. "You invited me and now I'm here. Where the hell else am I supposed to be?"

"Not here!" Owen roared. His whole body was shaking. He dare not turn away for fear she would approach unseen. Touch him and shatter the last vestiges of control. "This _cannot_ be about you."

"I know about the nightmares, Owen." She paused, waiting for the shock to register in some way. When a sigh stuttered from his thin lips, she continued. "Christmas night. I fell asleep during the movie and you left me on the couch. Remember?"

"Everything," he whispered bitterly.

She took a step closer. "You slept in the recliner…except you didn't sleep at all. You dreamed. You remember that too, don't you?"

"Always." The words were falling from his lips unchecked. Owen pressed his back to the wall, needing the support to stand erect. "Jesus Cristina, go home. I don't want…"

"Damn you to Hell Owen Hunt. You don't get to make that decision for me." Her voice was unnaturally soft but no less intense as she took another step. "You opened the door and I'm going to step through it. Screw the consequences."

Owen could smell the sharp tang of the ocean clinging to her hair. Feel the warmth of her breath bathing the exposed skin of his neck and tickling the hairs on his chin. Her fingers rose and trailed down his left cheek. The skin tingled in their wake and he struggled in vain to suppress a shudder.

A small smile curved Cristina's lips. "Call it a New Year's resolution."

"You don't make those."

Her unexpected giggle came out high and girlish. "I do now."

"Why?" he managed, surprised and grateful that she did not ask him how he knew.

"For the same reason you should."

Owen shook his head. "Cristina, you don't understand."

"And I won't if you don't tell me…tell_ someone_," she insisted.

"Someone," he repeated softly, looking at the floor. It was too much. She was too close to everything he wanted to protect her from. That connection was pulsating loudly in his ears. Daring him to take a chance and taunting him with the memories of nineteen souls lost forever in a single blazing moment. "I never meant for you to see…the nightmares. What happened over there isn't…shouldn't be a part of…"

"It is whether you like it or not. Whether I want to see it or not." A note of exasperation crept into Cristina's voice. "Don't you get it? If there is going to be an _us_ then you have to face it. And I have to face it with you."

"And you?" he asked, knowing it would stop her cold and give him a chance to breathe. "I know I'm not the only one with ghosts."

Cristina rocked back on her heels. Small hands slid into pockets and she chewed her lip, considering. "No, you're not," she admitted eventually. Looking up she caught his restless eyes and held them. "So?"

The parody of him shattered the moment. Owen leaned on his knees and laughed until tears started in his eyes. Emotions ran hot and cold, popping gooseflesh across his back. Her touch on his arm was a grounding force. Barely enough to keep hysteria at bay as the laughter subsided. When he could breathe normally again, Owen slowly straightened up. Her fingers slid down to his palm and he grasped them firmly, pulling her into a shaky embrace. "So now what?" he murmured into her thick hair.

Cristina turned and glanced at the watch on his left wrist. "It's 2009. A brand new year."

"I don't make resolutions either, Cristina."

"I think you just did." She stretched up and kissed him before snuggling close against his chest.

Owen savored the heat of the tiny, brilliant flame kindling between them. He held her tightly and dared to hope.

~THE~END~


End file.
